Darkness....

The murmuring ceases

the night ascends

through marks of wisdom

finding clues through it

Dark turns darker, unseen and random

the wait for a light to cross by

Wait, the endless waiting

like the immortal sea

its an expanse so dark

Only my eyes shining through it

 having hope undersigned, untouched

Finding clues through it,

Dark turns darker, unseen and random…

The Eye-liner!!

“She prefers it in black! Ok, the dark shade of the brown would also do. No, let’s go for dark tinge of magnificent purple, it goes strikingly well with her laced mauve lingerie. Crazy, isn’t it?” Yes, to match your eye-liner with your slip-ins. But, let it be, as she thinks once the former is on, and the latter is in, he is going to die in her arms. “Hush me!!” these were some wild thoughts she just devoured upon, a wild reverie. She leaves for office and think about the heap of assigns she has for the day and a huddle of emails she had to reply to. Just before saying goodbye to the room, she flashes her eyes in the mirror, they look amazing in black….she adores and would gently kiss them if she had the capacity to do so. Heights of narcissism; move on!

The day had been spent, somehow all goofed up and upside down, some unmanaged thoughts make their way through her mind, but his thoughts makes her grip her palm even harder. She dreams about him, even day-dream, gosh he is lovely! She makes it sure at 5:00 pm to visit the mirror and check upon the expression of her face. The blush is all gone, but the eye-liner stays there, the deepest black, the shimmer well defined and it comes out sharp from the edge of her dark brown eyes. She is contented; she is happy to see that smile that reaches her eyes and makes it even more classy.

He is meeting her for coffee this evening, they will decide mutually whether Barista would make it smooth or Starbucks would help them feel all the way more starry! All set, with her off-white shirt tucked in her black colored pants, a thin black belt with a dull gold buckle hangs around her waist erotically. He comes wearing a white shirt too! She loves the shade of the blue color denims that hang upon him, and that ethnic pair of chappals which she had gifted him. She loves him so. His mood is switched off, and she can make that out as she has not been complimented as yet, even with the echoing shade of black which defines her eyes. Oh lord, men!! She flutters her long lashes, helplessly.

She keeps his right hand in her lap, and hold his fingers so as to pass on an amusing tickle, just to alleviate his mood. He is numb. She finally initiates the conversation, “how do I look?" he says "you look sexy as always!” she blushes red. This time her smile reaches even a higher distance than just eyes. She feels high at her head. It was difficult to determine the rationale behind that numbness or say the dumbness surrounding him that evening. Being quiet and saying nothing, why men do that? Why would some men want to just hold your hand and sit quiet and let you bear the consistent urge of your mind? The mind which was yelling at her, that why you had to waste this elegant pair of pants and a sleek-cut off-white shirt if he was sad today?? He kissed her forehead and they parted ways, for the day!

After dinner, she sat relaxing in the balcony, under the splendid moon-light, as she sips on a king size cup of coffee. She wonders, “Why is that so? why is there a need to feel appreciated? Why did so desperately I want him to compliment the profound black eye-liner I had on my eyes.” She was answer-less, she went to see herself in the mirror. Her reflected version was ready to admire her untouched dark-brown eyes, and the shimmer of the black was as loyal and brightly labeled. She goes to bed, and sleeps with a gratifying thought at least my eye-liner speaks!!

Shree and the memories of him..

(It is continuation to the prior written short story "The Written Note". Soon, to be called a collection of chapters from Shree's life.)

                                                                      ii

Memories hang around in her mind. Can she ever get out of her past? Does she even want to? The questions go unanswered while she swings in the armchair. Yet she found music in every sound and sight. She desperately waited for the evenings to come as they ensured the noises of the children playing outside in the colony park. While she shuffles through her wedding album 11^th time that day, the bell rang; Shree gets up and is surprised to have her childhood friend at the door. She stood speechless and tears rolled down her eyes. Anisha came closer to embrace Shree. She needed this; the minutes which denied the passing on. Time was running out of her grip at once, she didn’t wish to lose this moment ever. Anisha’s arrival had made Shree smiled, her heartbeat grew fast and summer seemed spring. Some 15 years back, Shree and friend, had shared their tiffins daily, had helped each other in completing their school assignments, had known each others likes and dislikes and had been together through thick and thins. But this time they met, it was different. They were neither school going girls nor some aspiring youth, but life had been tough to Shree.

He had gone ending all the things in a note, a note that was written to amaze her, to shake her out of her comfort zone and then putting her in a lifetime of trauma. It was Anisha in whose company Shree could sip that evening coffee in relaxation. Shree missed him and wished his soul sat near her, watching her face talk, and her eyes seeking him. Anisha talked about her homely stuff, the mother-in-law who was affectionate and the children who were the apple of her eye.  Shree wished he was there to look at her countenance and caress her hair which fell on her forehead. She was listening to what Anisha spoke, but was deep down missing him.

Anisha stayed that night with Shree. They both talked about Shree’s life with him, how happy Shree was, and how she had met him at their first date. The eyes were full of tears, they remembered him. The thought of the written note had been scorching her nerves. Shree wished he was there again, wiping away her tears and hugging her across, and the thought brought a sudden urge to be loved. Again, she slept with his memories holding her bosom tight; she could hear her own heartbeat. Anisha went back that afternoon. It was five in the evening, the sun had set. Now, the children did not play in the park outside. It was quiet and gloomy. She opens her wedding album for the twelfth time. She missed him yet again!     

Villagers, silence and Vidaya..

Rains had been pouring daily. It had been blissful to the farmers as they danced and sang. They were getting good crop that year, the sun though wasn’t out of the clouds yet it was shining at its peak for the peasants. Rains had not been taking a single day for resting. They had been hammering hard on the grounds. One day there was even hail and a hail- storm for some. Vidaya in her little room was lying down. It was not a room in the premises of the house. It was only a shelter she had formed by collecting vulnerable thatches and some artistically crafted palm leaves. The shelter looked small but an elegant piece of stay to the world but it was endlessly wet from inside. Vidaya was shivering, while the peasants with their families enjoyed a warm drink of milk back in their cemented homes.

Vidaya was a woman of silence; she never spoke to many; no not even to some. She was believed to have many many faces. The peasants and the families commanded their wives to stay back and away, they demanded a life but too far from the elegant shelter in which Vidaya had been staying. She was shivering inside, certainly not because of the fear of the people who had been ignoring her to death and were ready to drag her out of the Chandrabhan village.

There might have been endless reasons to explore behind the distance that existed between the villagers and herself. Nobody cared. She ate wild fruits when she was hungry while coconut water was enough to quench her thirst. She never ran out for help, not once in the past eight years she had come to that small elegant shelter. She wasn’t living a normal life, but then it was only a belief. Nobody ever thought probably it was a life which she chose to live. But, it was only an apparent thought. The villagers who ever crossed her shelter heard her sing at times, the song was sung in Bengali, and had its own pauses and ended at sad notes. The villagers got to see her seldom, whenever she chose to leave her elegant shelter to catch some palm leaves. They said she was strong built, tall and fair. She wore a cotton sari in off-white color and wrapped around it in a city-lie fashion. They said she held her face up that stood out vivid with her beauty. She had long black hair which were sometimes tied like a bun or were open when it meant she just took a bath.

But, nobody ever approached her or asked why she was so or why she never spoke to them for help. Perhaps, silence was weaving the relationships in its own manner. There was a silence of eight long years between Vidaya and the villagers. She was living in her enigmatic zone, in which villagers were restricted and the cheerful lives of the peasants never was meant to serve her as well. Until the day, Vidaya’s body was found numb and senseless in her elegant shelter on a rainy day. Until that day, there was no connection between her and the villagers. The villagers who still went across the thatched shelter in which she lived now do not hear any sad notes. Chandrabhan never blended itself into malady, the elegance of the shelter had almost gone, no art was ever there before in the village to call it beautiful. Vidaya held the power to make it so. But, now she was gone in silence.  

Speak India, Speak for yourself

The first cry out of the mother’s womb and ‘she’ is considered as the sole burden for the rest of her life. It has been a tough fight, the fight between who will survive and who would reign. The society has so far been divided into the dichotomy of gender. A ‘Female’ since ages is classified in a life that is shameful, useless and barren in its very nature; that atrocious plight they have been put into since birth. The place we all inhabit is proud of its heritage and the fragrance of its very culture. But have we ever thought and analyzed that how life has been treating women across this planet? Have we ever pondered over millions of the women in the past that had been a part of the sinful practice as Sati? Have we ever gathered ourselves up to look out of the comfortable window of our balcony at the maid who works tirelessly through day and night and yet is treated no better than a mule? No, we haven’t as we are the only passive agents in the society who have been busy in the commercialized aspect of time.

It may seem strange to many when I talk about an age old practice of Sati, in a time like today. But, this is significant to be talked about as the society has ritually been practicing such acts like witch burning till seventeenth century and Sati till the end of the nineteenth century but the important question is that has it been demolished completely or not? Women have always been silenced to death or drugged and a new category like Subaltern has been defining them. I actually don’t see such practices coming to an end; in fact they have been gradually substituted. Probably, if innocent creatures are not considered as witches but are burnt to death for dowry, or if they become widows then they are not Sati but they fit into a taboo in the society which configures them as Divorced/ Separated/Widowed. If the woman today has a boyfriend then she does not possess a good character, she is wild if she speaks back and she is raped if she wears the clothes you find revealing. The ultimate question remains the same; why can’t we as a society let them breathe freely, or why this tagging is always something which has to happen so naturally.

By such stamping of what role a woman has to play in time, we are indulged only in conditioning their lives. It is the same society that takes oath to provide relaxation to women in the fields of education, work, and in fact allow them to grow out of the shell and walk parallel to the other gender in the society, yet  a woman’s individuality has sadly been marked on the basis of her relationship status if put in contemporary context. It is the same society which is constituted of both females and males, thus it would be somewhere incorrect to blame patriarchy to be the only unhealthy concept especially today. One cannot blame patriarchy if we look at the other side of the coin that what a woman is doing for another woman. When she lay on the road nude and injured did one single woman came to help her, or to at least see what could she have been facing? It is essential for one woman to speak for another; it is always the people in the society who have to help each other so leave alone the questions of man or a woman.

We women need to speak first, before even men speak for us. We need to fight domestic violence, we need to retreat back if we are forced for dowry and we need to shout back if we are silenced as Subalterns. We are women, and we need to prove the strength of this gender and importance of our living, breaking the barrier of conditioning. It is about every small thing from the burning, torturing, raping or any such derogatory act, it is for living and living like a human.